The Max Brand Megapack (449 page)

He had not, in fact, the slightest idea. He had come down here with a vague purpose of making trouble for the Dixonites; and he had even a sort of dream-like consciousness of what that trouble might be.

In the first place, he might, however, work among the heaped pieces of freight and come close enough to the fire to overhear some of the talk. If he could learn the intimate plans of the enemy, that might give him a clue on which to build his plans. So he went forward among the coils of barbed wire, glimmering like silver where the highlights touched them. And there were boxes of provisions, a pile of extra saddles and other equipment. Through these he wriggled, until he had the groups around the fire under his eyes.

CHAPTER 35

Hiding

Eight men were in view. Of these, five were obscure heaps in their blankets, sleeping the sleep of the tired. Only one face could be seen. The man lay on his back, his mouth open. Now and then he snored and snorted in his sleep.

It was Peg Garret, well-known to the Kid, who recognized that face and remembered the villainy of the owner of it. It was as though he were suddenly put in touch with the evil of the entire crowd. Hand-picked for cruelty and hard hearts, beyond a doubt.

Two others sat with a blanket between them, rolling dice, muttering, throwing out and raking in money as they won and lost. For such a quiet game the stakes were high, which told the Kid that these rascals had had a fat advance payment for this work of theirs. To their right was Champ Dixon, with his profile toward the Kid. As for the two gamblers, they were Dolly Smith of gun-fighting fame, a little, blond, smooth-faced boy of nineteen with a reputation like dynamite; the other was the somber face of Canuck Joe, who had a passion for fighting when the lights were out. Bare hands were his favored weapons then, or a knife to fee! for the throat of another in the dark.

Just then, into the light of the fire stepped a beetle-browed youth who took out a red-and-yellow handkerchief and with it wiped his eyes. For the thin dust cast up by the milling cattle was constantly blowing in the air. Usually, it was hardly perceptible, but now and again a denser cloud would roll in, red-stained above the fire. One of those clouds was passing now, the newcomer snorted and grunted.

“Damn dirty work,” said he.

“What’s doin’, Jip?” asked Dixon.

“Aw, nothin’ much,” said Jip, whose voice the Kid recognized as that of his recent companion in the shadow. “The cows is still workin’ up and down the fences, but they ain’t gonna bust through. The boys is keepin’ them back, and the cows is gettin’ used to holdin’ off. They ain’t got no nerve, these here beeves. They got no more nerve than old man Milman and his crew. They’re tender, that’s what they are.”

“Yeah,” said Dixon. “They’re tender. I seen five thousand head down on Chris Porter’s ranch in Arizona that would of beat in a stone wall with their heads if they wanted that bad to get at water. They ain’t got no brains, these cows. They’re stall-fed, what you might say.”

“Yeah, they’re stall-fed,” said the other. “Darn the dust. I’m gonna taste it for a month.”

“No, you won’t, son. One shot of redeye will take the taste out of your mouth.”

“Tell Bolony Joe to open up and pass around a little of the hot stuff, will you, Champ?”

“Will I? I will not,” said Dixon. “I ain’t gonna have no bunch of drunks on my hands.”

Jim made a cigarette.

“Larry has gone and got himself a sprained ankle,” said Jip.

“Hold on!” exclaimed Dixon. “How’d the fool do that?”

“Aw, he just goes down and gives himself a tumble by the creek, that’s all.”

“Did he sprain it bad?” growled Dixon.

“He can’t walk, hardly. That’s how badly.”

“If he can walk at all, he can ride a lot.”

“Aw, maybe.”

“Where is he?”

“I dunno. I don’t care. He makes me sick,” observed Jip.

“What’s the matter with you and Larry? Larry’s all right,” broke in little Dolly Smith.

“Is he? You have him then. I don’t want him,” said Jip. “He’s too blame sour. Somebody’s gone and told Larry that he’s funny.”

“He is funny,” said Dolly. “I always get a good big laugh out of Larry. The way he has of talking makes me laugh.”

“It don’t make me none,” replied Jip. “He makes me sick. That’s all.”

“What for does he make you sick?”

“He’s so blame sour. I wanted to help him to his blankets. He cursed me. That’s what he done. He’s sour.”

“Give him some castor oil, Champ,” advised Dolly. “He’s very sick. Larry makes him sick.”

“Yeah?” said Jip, raising his voice. “You don’t make me none too darn well, yourself, as far as that goes.”

“Is that so?” said Dolly, jerking up his head like a bird on a branch that sees trouble ahead. “Maybe I’m gonna make you feel a lot unweller, before I get through.”

“You little sawed-off, pink-faced, pig-eyed runt,” said Jip, thoroughly aroused. “You come out here and I’ll tell you something that your ma and pa would like to hear!”

“You set where you are,” broke in Champ Dixon. “Jip, you back up.”

“I ain’t gonna take none of his backwash,” declared Jip.

“Who’s started all the fuss?” asked Champ. “You have. You come in here and break up the party. How old are you, kid?”

“I said that Larry was a bust,” said Jip. “I told him to his own face. ‘You make me sick,’ I says to him. I told him off, is what I done.”

“If you said that, Larry would punch you in the eye,” observed little Dolly Smith. “You wouldn’t never dare to say that to Larry. He’s got a wallop like a mule. I seen him once in a Phoenix barroom when a couple of elbows comes in to straighten out a fuss. They started something when they got to Larry. And he done all the finishing. You keep your hands off of Larry, kid, or you’re gonna lose about ten years’ growth one of these days.”

“Thanks,” said Jip. “I tell you, Larry makes me sick. His idea of kidding, it makes me sick too. ‘Who are you?’ says I, as he comes crawlin’ along. ‘I’m the Kid,’ says he.”

Both Dolly and Canuck Joe put back their heads and laughed at this last remark.

“He said he was the Kid,” Dolly Smith said, chuckling. “That’s pretty good, Canuck, ain’t it?”

“That’s kind of funny,” said Canuck Joe, and laughed more loudly than before.

“Shut up your faces,” said one of the sleepers, wakening.

“Yeah, pipe down,” advised Champ Dixon. “The boys has gotta get some sleep, don’t they?”

“I’ll tel! you the trouble with you Dolly—” began Jip. Champ Dixon raised one finger.

“Jip, you hear me? You back up.”

Jip glowered at his leader.

But that raised forefinger and that quiet voice had a meaning that was very definite. He turned on his heel and retreated into the night, declaring over his shoulder, that he was “sick of the whole business anyway.”

Dolly Smith glared after him.

“Jip is only a fool kid,” said Dixon. “He’s all right.”

“Is he?” said Dolly coldly. “Where’s his call to come around here with his back fur all standin’, I’d like to know? You hear that, Champ,” he went on, “when Jip asked Larry who he was: ‘I’m the Kid,’ says he. That’s pretty good, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s rich,” Champ Dixon said, laughing. “The Kid is gonna come a bust one of these days,” he added darkly.

“Sure he’s gonna come a bust,” remarked Dolly Smith. “But I don’t wanta try the bustin’. Not till I’ve got my full growth. He’s too hot for the kind of gloves that I wear.”

Canuck Joe thoughtfully spread out his own great hands and examined them in the firelight as though they had a special and new meaning to him at that moment.

“I dunno,” said he, doubtfully.

“You never seen him go,” said Dolly Smith. “I seen him go, though. Have you ever seen that sweetheart work, Champ?”

“Yeah, I seen him work,” said Champ.

“He loves it, don’t he?”

“Yeah, he loves it, all right,” said Champ.

“He’s a ring-tai! little snake-eatin’ weasel, is what he is,” said Dolly Smith fondly. “I seen him work one evening in Carson City. The dust he raised, you couldn’t see your way for a week, in that town. I wonder how Chip Graham is? I wonder what they’ll do with Chip?” he continued, altering his voice.

“Shay’s gonna take care of that,” said Champ Dixon curtly. “There won’t nothing happen to Chip. Shay ain’t that much a fool to let a good boy like Chip down. He’ll stand by him.”

“He better, I’ll tell a man. If anything happens to Chip, there’s gonna be a bust, I tell you. I’ll be right there at the busting, too. Too bad you couldn’t get the Kid in on this here deal.”

“Well I tried to.”

“What did he say?”

“I’ll tell you something, Dolly. The Kid’s gone and got a swelled head. That’s what he’s gone and got.”

“Yeah?”

“You never seen no sign?”

“No, I never seen none.”

“Education,” said Champ Dixon with a sigh. “That was the spoilin’ of him. He figgers that he’s different from the rest of us. Besides, the newspapers is always givin’ him space.”

“He ain’t no circus performer, though,” said Dolly loyally. “He won’t throw in with nobody. He’s got a swelled head,” insisted Champ Dixon.

“Maybe he’s got a swelled head,” assented Dolly. “I wonder what he’s doin’ now?”

And, turning his head, he looked straight back at the point where the Kid lay, listening!

“He’s tryin’ to think out some way,” said Champ Dixon. “But he ain’t got a chance. There ain’t no way.”

“No, I guess there ain’t no way,” replied Dolly. “Hard nuts is his meat, though.”

“Yeah, hard nuts is his meat. But you tell me how he’s gonna get inside of that wire, will you?”

“Yeah, how’s he gonna do that?” admitted Dolly. “I seen him work, though. The dust he raises, you wouldn’t hardly believe. I’m gonna turn in. When do I go on watch?”

“Two hours more.”

“What’s gonna be the end of this job?”

“The Kid’s gonna have a bust,” said Champ Dixon, clicking his teeth. “That’s gonna be the end. And Milman is gonna eat out of our hands.”

“Well,” said Dolly, “I’d as soon that it was finished. It’s dirty business. Them cows—”

And he rose and went toward a wagon and climbed into it over the doubletrees.

CHAPTER 36

Chuck

There was nothing particularly gained by listening to this conversation, the Kid decided. He had learned that there was a certain amount of fundamental decency in Dolly Smith. He had learned that Champ Dixon kept his crew of barbarians controlled in the hollow of his hand. He had learned, finally, that he himself was looked upon as the single danger to the camp, and that danger they considered small.

“The Kid’s gonna have a bust,” Champ had declared with a prophetic solemnity and the words rang and re-echoed through the mind of the boy as he drew back again from the fire, working his way slowly among the boxes.

The cook came out from his kitchen tent carrying a bucket of steaming coffee, and the Kid paused in his retreat to watch the other put down the bucket where the heat of the fire would warm it. Then Bolony Joe—gaunt as a crow, and evil of face—took some wood from a great heap which towered a dozen feet into the air and freshened the fire.

“You gents ain’t got the sense to keep up your own fire,” said Bolony. “Well, you can have cold coffee, then. I’m gonna turn in. This is the worst job that I ever cooked for. They’s dust in everything. I hope you bust your teeth on the grit in that corn bread. I’d rather cook in the inside of a sand storm. I’m gonna turn in.”

“Take it easy, Bolony, will you?” said Champ Dixon soothingly. “That was a fine mulligan that you cooked for supper.”

“There wasn’t enough tomatoes in it,” said Bolony. “You can’t make no good mulligan without no tomatoes. I told you that we oughta have a lot more tomatoes. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yeah. You told me. I ordered ’em. It was the fool of a kid at the grocery store.”

“Well, you can’t do no cookin’ with nothin’ to cook with,” said Bolony. “That’s all I gotta say.”

“You can,” said Champ Dixon. “Because you got brains, Bolony. I seen a lot of them fancy French chefs that had everything in the world and they couldn’t cook one side of you, Bolony. Because you got brains You gotta have brains to be a cook.”

Bolony cleared his throat and frowned to keep from betraying pleasure with a smile.

“That baked ham was pretty tough at noon,” he said.

“That was the hest ham I ever put a tooth into,” said Champ Dixon. “I never seen no better cooked ham. All the boys said so. Look what they done to that ham, I mean!”

“Well,” said Bolony, “they dunno nothin’ about eatin’. There ain’t any call for a cook on this outfit. An Injun would do for them. They dunno enough to know what they’re puttin’ in their faces. I got some dried apples, Champ. How about some apple pie for breakfast?”

“Bolony, I leave it to you. I never heard of a thing like apple pie out in camp. You sure got the ideas, Bolony.”

“Yeah,” said Bolony. “Soft-soap the cook. That’s the way it goes. A lotta soft soap to make the dog feel good. I’m gonna turn in. S’long, Champ.”

“So long, Bolony.”

The cook turned away, and Champ Dixon, for a moment, smiled faintly to himself. The Kid, in the farther darkness, was smiling also.

But then he turned seriously to whatever work he could find to do. The very appearance of Bolony Joe had put an idea in his mind. Cows die slowly on a Western range, with their water supply cut off. But hungry men go on strike far sooner. The appearance of Bolony Joe and the sight of the kitchen tent did the rest for the Kid. He started worming his way toward it at once.

When he passed the big woodpile, where the accumulated brush had been heaped, he was able to stand up and go more freely, for the shadow which it cast concealed him well enough.

So he came to the kitchen tent.

Outside of it was the well-built fireplace over which Bolony Joe gloomily performed his duties. The Kid gave a rather friendly glance at the dimly glimmering embers of that fire. Then he passed into the tent.

He was amazed by what he found within it.

Certainly Billy Shay and Dixon, in equipping this expedition, had not spared expense. They knew that high wages are the first requisite to keep men happy; and right after money comes food. There were rows of tins and heaps of boxed goods. There was a thin odor of hams and bacons, the rankness of onions; the peculiar, earthy smell of potatoes. A pang of hunger struck the Kid. It was so keen that he shook his head and smiled at himself.